A Strange Name, Don't You Think?
by acreamcolouredtypewriter
Summary: Benedict Cumberbatch meets an extraordinary woman with a name to match...
1. Chapter 1

"This one is for you, sir."

The bartender slides a scotch across the bar, snapping Benedict back to the noisy, cluttered present. He stares at the drink blankly for a few minutes, completely caught off guard. He looks up at the bartender, asking rather helplessly,

"but…I didn't…order this?"

The man behind the bar chuckles to himself, and then begins to explain, like one would to a confused child,

"Yes, sir, I know. _She_ ordered it for you".

He was pointing down to the other end of the bar. At a woman.

"Oh".

Benedict is aware that he's acting like a basset hound just coming out of anesthesia but he just can't quite make his brain work.

_A woman. Scotch. Laughing bartender. That woman. _

_What._

In his defense, it's been a complete whirlwind of a night. Awards show. Fancy tux. A ride in a shiny car, lots of flashing camera bulbs. He hadn't won but Martin had, and that really was lovely. He wasn't upset about not winning, not in the least—he knew his work on Sherlock was good and he had offers flooding in, but all the same…it was just a bit much. There were so many people to talk to and congratulations to be doled out and interviews to give. _And_ he still had to try and look nice for photos which meant he couldn't lose himself on the sweaty dance floor. Mostly, it was just exhausting and he was wishing he were at home, with a book. Since that wasn't an option, he was taking a breather at the bar with a comforting gin and tonic and now this…this…_whoever_ she was had just ordered him a lovely drink. Now what?

Thankfully his brain kicks into gear in the few seconds of stupor it takes him to gather his wits.

He stands up a little straighter, fusses with his bow tie, and downs the rest of his current drink. As he picks up the scotch, the amber liquid sloshes up the sides, leaving an iridescent film inside the glass. He makes his way over to the woman—the scotch-sender. The interrupter of sulky thoughts. The closer he gets, the more he notices. And what he notices is…wow.

He hasn't really been looking before, not really, not at _her_; he had mostly just been caught off-guard. But now that he is looking—she is lovely. He would use the word glorious, but she is subtler than that. She has on a deep, deep blue gown. So dark it almost looks black, but it isn't quite navy either—it's richer than that. It has a simple, flowing cut, falling around her body with an ease that makes the dress look like it's part of her. The straps twist around themselves as they make their way around her shoulders, twining together in the back as they meet, with flecks of gold ribbon in the twirled fabric. It's an absolutely _marvelous_ contrast, if he does say so himself, to her golden brown skin, spotted with freckles all down her back and arms. And that's nothing compared to her face. If her dress is the night sky, her face is the North Star. As cheesy as it sounds, even as he thinks it in his head, there's just…no other way to see it.

Her face is _almost _perfectly symmetrical—but not quite. Which makes it so much more beautiful than it would have been if it were absolutely perfect. The freckles splay across the bridge of button nose that somehow manages to still be elegant, while also being adorable. He meets her eyes and they are liquid, amber pools. Almost the color of sun warmed whiskey, they don't waver from his (now probably too long) stare. As he's been cataloguing her features in his mind these past few seconds, he's been wondering how to start this conversation. After drinking her in, he's determined that the only way to begin is like so: He takes her left hand (tiny in his, but she has long, delicate fingers), sweeps it up to his mouth, places the lightest of kisses on it before murmuring,

"The scotch is almost as lovely as you are. Thank you. To whom do I owe my gratitude?".

At the kissing of her hand she begins to laugh, and it's such a lovely sound. He can still make it out against the clamor of the after party because it's a perfect middle decibel, clear and round. She throws her head back as the laugh escapes her throat, the sinews of her elegant neck standing out as they accommodate her mirth. She has a birthmark behind her ear.

He smiles what he knows is probably a rather goofy smile, and any tension or awkwardness is diffused. Her smile reveals that her mouth is even more beautiful in motion and he watches how her lips move as she says,

"Maggie. Pleasure, Mr.…"

"Cumberbatch. Benedict Cumberbatch. Maggie. Short for…Margaret, perhaps?"

She flushes slightly, the fist ruffle in her countenance he's noticed so far—she mostly seems completely unflappable, confidant and quietly sure of herself.

"Magnolia, actually. It's short for Magnolia."

He's pleasantly surprised, and allows the strange beauty of her name to curve upon his tongue as he speaks it aloud.

"Magnolia. Even more lovely. May I sit? And may I ask, why did you send me a scotch?"

She grins at him devilishly, those gorgeous, full lips pulling over sparkling white canines. She rests her chin on her palm as she leans toward him on the bar

"Because you looked like you were contemplating drowning yourself in the bartender's keg of Guinness. And you're wearing a beautiful suit. In fact, you're just rather beautiful in general."

She throws this out almost as a challenge, to see what he will do. He just calmly returns her gaze, a small smile still in his eyes.

She continues, "I hope you didn't mind me interrupting your reverie".

His voice deepens slightly as he replies

"Not at all. You've saved me from a night of gazing into a ever-emptying glass whilst trying to avoid everyone else in the room."

That clear laugh rings out again, no hint of shyness or self-consciousness in the corners of her eyes.

"Tell me, how did you know if my suit was so 'beautiful', as you put it? I've only recently been honing my sartorial skills—I have a hard time telling Brooks Brothers from Armani".

She's raising her glass to her lips as he confesses this, and almost chokes on the wine as he finishes his sentence.

"Oh my god." She holds her hand to her chest in mock horror, "I don't know if I can be seen with you". She drops the joke and admits "I'm a stylist, that's how I know. And why I'm so horrified at your lack of appreciation for your own gorgeously tailored Steve McQueen".

He likes her. He was pretty sure before, but now he knows for certain. Magnolia. Yes, he likes her very much.


	2. Chapter 2

The crowd had petered away as the night waned. Magnolia had not noticed. She hadn't wanted another drink since she had slowly finished her glass of wine—she wanted to absorb his eyes and his voice with perfect clarity. They had been talking animatedly, sharing jokes and quips and banter that made them quake with laughter until it diminished into giggles and wiped corners of eyes. Now, with the room quieting around them, she closed her eyes, resting her elbow on the bar. God, she was tired. How had she not noticed until now? It had to be close to sunrise. Wow. Wowsie wowsie wow. Yeahhhh, she was officially wiped out.

Benedict must have noticed. He puts his hand gently over hers and says quietly, "Hey." Goddddd that voice. In her fatigue-addled brain, Maggie inwardly groans at the sound. As he's talked through the night it's gotten a little deeper, a little rougher. It makes her insides quake with the desire to curl around the sound as if she were a cat, feel it vibrate and warm her.

"Magnolia".

"Wha—". At his mention of her name she realizes that she didn't open her eyes the first time, and jerks back to consciousness (mostly).

"Yes?" Her voice comes out small and querulous. She clears her throat and tries again.

"I am awake. I am most definitely….awake".

Even as the words leave her lips her voice trails off and he chuckles, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear that sound.

"Let's get you a cab home, shall we?" He says it almost to himself, but she can feel him shift. She knows he's donning his jacket, which he had shed to a nearby barstool, and smiles to herself, eyes still closed. She'd memorized what he looked like in that jacket to the point that she can picture it in her mind, the perfect planes of his body and the suit coming together in gorgeous folds of fabric.

Maggie pulls it together enough to open her eyes most of the way and haul herself out of her chair, in what was probably a decidedly undignified manner. Ah, well. There was only so much a girl could do at 4 in the morning.

He offers her his arm, the lovely man. Next to him, she feels like they practically glide past the bartender, who grins at them like a particularly smug Cheshire cat. She mentally takes note of the fact that she doesn't recall Ben having had anything else to drink after they'd started talking. She files it into the 'things that are important to consider before doing something stupid' cabinet in her brain. There are a few taxis still left outside as they step into the chill damp of new morning. She doesn't even ask, but pulls him in after her and gives her address. 'Bold of me', she notes. Honestly though—she has idea where she's going with this. He looks surprised, which is nice, but not disgruntled, which is also good. Taking the opportunity afforded to her by their proximity in the cab (but mostly just sleepy), She rests her head against his shoulder. He tucks his arm around her almost automatically, as if it were the most natural thing. He smells like…like his voice sounds. Like fine fabric laced with musk and a little but of cigarette smoke and some unknowable spice. She takes a deep inhale, all the way to the bottom of her lungs, before she lightly exhales the words "you should have won".

His voice sounds surprised: "Pardon?", as if he might have misheard her.

She lifts her head says clearly, "You should have won tonight. I really think you're brilliant, Benedict."

His eyes widen slightly and a smile tentatively curls up around his lips as he ducks his head.

"Thank you, Magnolia. I appreciate that".

She loves that he calls her by her full name. Not shortened, as if the longer version is too much of an inconvenience or an embarrassment. He says it as if he is rolling it around inside of him before it makes its way out of his mouth, making sure it will sound just right before he speaks it aloud. On his tongue, it's not awkward or silly, but the name of someone important. Someone who _matters._

Yes, she likes him. Dangerously so. Hmmmm. Something will have to be done about this.

Her head back on his shoulder, she gives into her exhaustion and closes her eyes. A million thoughts are racing through Benedict's head, a million horses making his chest pound. He wondered if she could hear it.

She could.

Before he can gather his thoughts to form a coherent sentence like- "Will you have dinner with me?" or "I would like to see you again" or "You are the most beautiful, lovely woman I have ever had the pleasure to lay eyes on and I think I might be slightly in love with you"…wait. Scratch that one, no please god Benedict don't say that last one out loud—the cabbie turns to tell them they've arrived. She lifts her head, moving like a…well, a very adorable sleepy something. She turns to him and smiles lazily, her face and eyes soft with the first signs of sleep. He can't help wondering if this is what she looks like when she wakes up in the morning. 'please keep it together, Benedict, and for the love of god, don't blabber'.

"Thank you, Ben. You're lovely". She says this as if it's a revelation. Like a child, her statement sounds like she's just expressed the most important, self-evident fact in the world. It's a statement that refuses to be denied; "You. Are. Lovely." It makes him feel a bit like he's made of champagne bubbles.

'That's odd', a voice in the back of his mind notes.

He realizes he hasn't said anything. He's just been sitting there, fizzing away.

In the same manner in which she had complimented him, she says, "I'm getting out now. Goodnight." The brightness of her smile returns, glinting like the sun peeking in through the car window. She leans in closer and all but breathes into his cheek "See you around" before she places a gentle kiss on his cheek. She chuckles to herself as all he manages to gurgle out is "Y-y-yes. Yes". Her soft laughter is all she leaves behind as she swishes out the cab in her impossible dress, handing the cabbie enough cash to cover the fair to her house and his journey as well. He feels panic welling up inside of him as the door closes and the cab starts to pull away. 'Oh god I don't even have her number or her last name!'. He scrambles to look out the back window to catch any clues as to where to find her again—he spots the number on her apartment building and he sees her standing there. She's just standing, swaying slightly on her doorstep as if singing to herself, watching him leave. He thinks he catches her smile.

He spends the rest of the ride to his residence in a daze, no concrete thoughts passing through his mind but absentmindedly wondering what she smells like, what food she likes, what books she reads. Oh god, this was bad. When he arrives, he automatically reaches into his jacket pocket to pull out his wallet for the cab fare before he remembers that she paid—but his fingers find a foreign object. Pulling it out, it reveals itself to be one of those mini parasols the bartender had been sticking in tropical drinks all night—she must have snuck it into his jacket when he had taken it off. He flooped it open to find that she had written '0492 557 7583 ~Magnolia'. She was sneaky. He smiled idiotically to himself until the cabbie asked "Yah a'ight, sir? This is where you live, yeah?" 'Yeah, yeah it is, sorry, so sorry".

He skipped his way to his front door, letting himself in.

'Now…when do I call. Now? Or later today? Or in a few days? God I've always been crap at his'. But he was unbearably…fizzy. And it took him until long after the sun was up for him to finally bubble down enough to sleep.


End file.
